


Honeycomb

by benoitmacon (larvae)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Episode: s01e39 Infestation, Episode: s01e40 Human Remains, Masturbation, Medical, Other, Parasites, The Corruption, Trypophobia, Unsanitary, wound care, wound fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larvae/pseuds/benoitmacon
Summary: XXX NAUGHTY ARCHIVIST CAN'T KEEP HIS FINGERS OUT OF HIS HOLES
Comments: 17
Kudos: 75





	Honeycomb

**Author's Note:**

> Q: Have you ever considered your fixation with invasive worms from a Freudian perspective? 
> 
> A: I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.. the idea of pulsating, writhing, elongating, worms tunneling into flesh is... I mean it’s just just good horror really...
> 
> \- The Magnus Archives S1 Q&A Part I

Jonathan Sims, head archivist at the Magnus Institute in central London, crossed the threshold to his flat a little worse for wear.

It was late. He was tired. His body ached horribly. He could not comprehend what he had seen, let alone what he had lived through, what he now had to face, or what any of it meant.

His memory of the past forty eight hours was decidedly blurry and disjointed, and he recalled their events through the thick haze of an adrenaline hangover. The entity that was once Jane Prentiss had attacked The Institute. A tidal wave of silvery worms had all withered away to nothingness under a blast of CO2. The police had taken their reports and Elias had assured his archival staff that he was now aware of the gravity and scope of their concerns.

Jon hadn’t gone home immediately afterwards. There had been statements to record, equipment to recover, and a mental breakdown to stave off with the routine and recognizable aspects of his occupation. When he’d finally been told rather pointedly to go home and get some rest, he had, walking the eight miles to his flat with his tape recorder tucked into his coat pocket. He hadn’t taken the tube because… it hadn’t occurred to him. He’d been operating on something less than instinct, like a clockwork figure on a track.

Slowly, like an improperly reanimated corpse, Jon made his way from the doorway to the kitchen to put a kettle on. For lack of a more appropriate response, a cup of tea seemed like a rock to cling to through turbulent waters.

Whatever comfort it may have brought him quickly disappeared as he recoiled in horror at the sight of his left hand. It was covered in blood. Dried blood. Presumably his blood. It caked his fingertips; flakes of it had dried under his nails and a trail of it dripped down the back of his hand to stain the crisp edge of his shirtsleeve. He spent a moment turning his shaking hand this way and that, looking for what wound could have split open to generate so much carnage. He found none. He was at a loss until he caught a glimpse of his distorted reflection in the whistling kettle.

Jon froze. He began to reach his bloodied hand up to his neck but stopped halfway. He took the kettle off the burner, keeping his eyes locked with the fun house mirror distortion that bore only a passing resemblance to the Head Archivist. He turned sharply and made his way to the washroom, taking a steadying breath before flipping on the lights and confronting the truth in the mirror above his sink.

Bloodied bandages. They were on the left side of his neck, placed there by the Archive’s medical staff. A carefully folded square of gauze secured by two strips of medical tape. This was pulled aside haphazardly to reveal the wounds underneath: two burrow holes, like costume store vampire bites. Little gifts from the myriad creatures that had poured forth from Jane Prentiss and accosted him and Martin.

Jon stared in horror at his unexpectedly gory reflection.He must have scratched for a long time. There was no other way for him to have done this kind of damage. Deliberate, methodical scraping. First at the bandage until it gave way, then at the wound, and eventually breaking through the delicate, newly formed scabs to pull loose the recently placed stitches.

The wounds were deep and so they’d been packed with gauze. Some of it Jon’s hand (which he regarded as a rogue operative in this whole affair) had managed to pull free. Some was still partway in the holes.

He rummaged under his sink for some rubbing alcohol and set about redressing the wound. He cleaned the gore from his skin with a wet hand towel, and pulled the half-freed gauze from where it had been packed with a pair of tweezers. Pulling the blood soaked gauze out from his neck felt… odd. There was a sucking resistance he hadn’t expected as his tissue fought to keep the material inside itself. The sensation was difficult enough to understand without also watching a foreign object emerge from the side of his neck.

Having no medical tape, gauze, or spare bandages, he settled on covering the wounds with a large plaster, resolving to see The Institute’s medical staff about it come morning.

Once he’d cleaned the area to his liking, and just before he lowered the BAND-AID into place over it, Jon caught sight of the twin wounds. Or, rather, they caught his eye in a way they hadn’t before. Obviously he’d already been looking at them. How else could he have been cleaning them? Not only had he been looking at them, he’d been focusing on them intently for the past quarter of an hour.

But this was different. It didn’t feel like he’d noticed them, it felt like… it sounded insane even as his mind first put the sensation into words, but it was true. It was accurate.

They looked at him.

It was the feeling of staring at a stranger turned away from you and having them suddenly catch your eye. Jon averted his gaze quickly before the piercing chill of what he had felt settled into the pit of his stomach. He looked desperately back at the holes in his neck, searching the mirror for some same sign of knowing. Of recognition. Of whatever had turned two black pin pricks into something else entirely.

It did not come. They were two bloodied holes at the side of his neck. They were irritated. They hurt.

Jon put the plaster over them. He went to bed. He did not sleep.

Weeks passed, and tensions remained high. The Institute, once in the business of cataloging hauntings, was now itself a haunted place. A weight of persistent dread hung over the archive and its occupants. Even without the threat of silver worms stalking you at every turn, other mysteries loomed large. The murder of Gertrude Robinson, for a start. The death of Jane Prentiss. The nature of whatever she had become. Her purpose. Its purpose?

How had it been texting Jon for thirteen days? Did it still have thumbs? Could it see out of the thousands of holes in its face? All of them?

Safe to say that everyone was feeling more than a touch preoccupied with the fallout of the entire… well they’d taken to calling it “the Incident” in a way that made it clear the “i” was capitalized.

None more so than Jon, who wore his paranoid exhaustion across his stern features like a warning label.

His colleagues could all take their guesses at what plagued him. He carried his tape recorder around like a man possessed, clutching it close as if it were some such protective amulet. The other one, his spare, he kept locked inside his desk, checking on it regularly throughout the day.

He came in to work early, completing his tasks and research before anyone else had woken up to head in. He wanted to work alone. To be alone.

Jon knew that they -- Tim, Martin, Sarah, even Elias -- could see that he wasn’t sleeping. He was certain they could picture him: red eyed, hunched over a laptop in a minimally decorated flat, madly searching for answers, slamming full speed into dead ends.

And they were halfway right. Jon wasn’t sleeping.

He was picking.

Every day at five pm he would rush home from the archives without a word to spare for his concern-laden colleagues. He would travel to his flat on instinct, occasionally bumping into passersby or narrowly avoiding death in busy crosswalks. He would cross his threshold, deadbolt his door, and beeline to his washroom to retrieve his toolbox.

His toolbox, which housed his instruments, was a small plastic bin he’d acquired at Tesco. In it, bought in the same run, was rubbing alcohol, gauze, medical tape, self adhering bandages, surgical shears, and curved forceps. Their arrangement was tidy, their sanitation was fastidious, and their purpose gruesome.

Because every night just as the sun was setting, Jonathan Sims would climb up onto his bathroom sink, press himself as close as he could to the mirror above it, and under the humming, sterile glow of three fluorescent tubes, he would worry at his holes.

There were twenty three of them. He had counted enough times to be absolutely sure. Two on his neck, five on his right shoulder and seven on his left, eight splayed over the top of his back, and one just at the base of his skull, barely covered by his hairline. He had thoroughly explored them all.

They didn’t really itch anymore so he didn’t scratch them. That had likely been a consequence of newly forming scabs and skin dried out by antiseptic. They never got the chance to scab over for more than a day, now, so whatever remained of the feeling had very much become sensory background noise at this point. So, no, they didn’t itch.

They called. They very nearly sang. They howled, they yearned, they keened, and Jonathan Sims was beholden to them.

It started with just picking off the scabs. It had felt… not good? Exactly? How would you describe what it feels like to pick a scab? Satisfying? It brings.. relief? Perhaps sates a curiosity? Fulfills an urge? Jon had never been a scab picker. Not even in his childhood. He had always been averse to repetitive body focused behaviors. He’d never been one for oral fixations, so he did not bite his nails or worry at his spots or pick his teeth. And when he did wind up with a wound large enough to scab he left it well enough alone. The human body had a wonderful repair mechanism in place that he let perform its complex biochemical work in peace.

But this felt different. Even when he had steeled his will against the persistent itch, letting the wounds close had felt… wrong. For some days his unquiet mind had conjured, on the precipice of sleep, the idea that they needed to breathe.

Jon had leapt out of bed, pulled off his bandages, and examined every hole for stowaways. They were empty. All of them. He shone a torch into each, then checked using the light on his phone. Empty. Every one. He sanitized the wounds again, redressed them, and went to bed. He did not sleep.

The thought came to him again the next night and he went through the same process, pinching at the sides of every entry hole to make sure nothing came wriggling out. His prodding was met with stillness and silence.

He had thought to ask Martin about it the next day. No real way to breach the subject tactfully was there? Martin, do your holes bother you? The new ones? From the worms? How do you find them? Troublesome, or…?

When Martin had come to speak to him Jon had nonetheless resolved to ask, despite the awkwardness the question guaranteed. But he had gotten distracted while Martin was talking, which was something he did a lot of.

“...which begs the question --”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Sorry?”

“It doesn’t beg the question.”

“I only meant that if Jane --”

“If it begged the question it would be committing a logical fallacy wherein its premise presupposed its conclusion.”

“Uh…”

“It’s a type of circular reasoning.”

“That wasn’t really my point, I --”

“Words mean things, Martin.”

He had left after that. In a huff. Jon’s question was left unasked and unanswered, Martin’s question was left as it had been to begin with: un-begged.

And so Jon was left alone. Facing those same thoughts alone. Only this next night it seemed perfectly clear to him what the thought referred to. The holes. The holes needed to breathe.

They were a remnant and therefore an extension of a cacophony of life. A grand, enormous, pulsating collective, no more or less than the sum of its myriad parts. The holes were a legacy and they were a brand. They needed to be upkept. To be tended. Like a garden. Or a shrine.

He had gone out that night to assemble his materials and he had immediately put them to use.

All too soon keeping the wounds open was not enough. They couldn’t simply be maintained, they had to be explored.

He’d used tweezers at first, gently picking at the edges until they had once slipped ever so slightly inside. The sensation was thrilling. Like a to-scale game of Operation he could play on and with himself. The shock it sent through him rattled bone. Were there angels, they would sing. Jonathan wasn’t shy after that, the fever had reached too great a pitch for feigned propriety. He dug around, pushing the long stainless steel implement down until it scrapped the base of the passage. He pressed his damp forehead against the mirror and stifled a moan. He took off his glasses, abandoning precision, and repeated the process twenty two times. It was a struggle getting to every hole across his back and he put a crick in his neck raising his arms to find the one at the base of his skull, but it didn’t matter. The probing eclipsed the discomfort.

The long steel tweezers were soon replaced by Jonathan’s fingers. Gloved at first, but that precaution was quickly disposed of. It still wasn’t the same, of course. A human finger is such a clumsy, boney, hinged implement with such a limited range of motion. Nothing like a worm. Nothing like that frenzied, instinct driven writhing to force yourself deep into the warm, wet dark. To seek shelter in the weak, yielding flesh before you.

Sticking your finger in an old hole doesn’t actually fulfill anything, of course. There isn’t a purpose. Your body isn’t a home, just a cavity. But it mirrors the genuine article deliciously. And to feel the walls of those burrow holes close in around his digit, unctuous as they were with blood, his finger’s entry aided by a slick of hastily applied spit… it was perverse. It was divine.

After that it seemed only logical to start masturbating. Well, however logical any next step could be in what was a chaotically illogical scenario. Whatever natural progression could be applied to so unnatural a state of affairs.

And in fairness, the masturbation had started as a distraction. After so many days of digging around in his holes with his bare hands, Jon began to fear infection more than he craved release. But the calling was hypnotic. A siren’s song that drowned out the looming threat of sepsis. Trying to sate it with other provocations of the flesh did nothing. If anything, it made it even more frustrating. Like scratching right next to a bug bite in an attempt to avoid aggravating it. It only reminds you what you’re missing. It only highlights what you really want and how close you are to getting it.

He discovered that if he lay in bed, he could arc his back away from the mattress and lift himself up on his shoulders, stimulating the holes at the same time as he touched himself. It had been impossible not to slip his fingers in after that, to try and match their undulations to the rise and fall of his other hand.

Jon couldn’t say what had possessed him to record any of this. The reason behind his usual recordings was a general sense of benefiting posterity. Archiving for the common good. Preserving knowledge that would otherwise be lost. Surely this was better off lost. Forgotten. Erased into the endless cacophony of undocumented perversion that the world had generated before this.

But he had. With his tape recorder. It wasn’t that he thought the laptop wouldn’t take, moreso that this felt more secure. Digital files were so easy to access or duplicate, but there was a sense of safety in analog. Privacy. Maybe that’s why the real recountings preferred tape. Maybe they, too, wanted privacy. Security. Maybe they too would feel better away from the light, deep in something warm, wet, dark, and yielding that they could mold in their own image.

He was more right about the security than he would have liked.

He tried to burn it as soon as he’d recorded it. Or, as soon as he’d freed himself from whatever wild fling of fancy had possessed him during its recording. But it hadn’t burned. Magnetic tape, one of the most notoriously flammable materials on the planet, sat untouched and unbothered as Jon struck his way through a full box of kitchen matches. He came away with burnt fingertips and a wholly intact, perfectly playable tape.

He hid it, rotating it through hidey holes in his flat like a wad of dirty money. But it didn’t help. He still knew it was there.

After enough futile attempts to distance himself from the thing he decided to face the facts. He sat at his kitchen table with a half bottle of gin in front of him, a half bottle in his bloodstream, and his tape recorder in hand. He closed his eyes, made up his mind, and pressed play.

[𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌]

𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙹𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚂𝚒𝚖𝚜, 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚞𝚜 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝙹𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚗, 𝚞𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝟷𝟿𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝, 𝟸𝟶𝟷𝟼. 𝙰𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚢 𝙹𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚂𝚒𝚖𝚜, 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚞𝚜 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚎. 

[𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎]

𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚜.

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝙸… [𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛] 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.

[𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝]

𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚃𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝙹𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚞𝚜 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚑 𝙹𝚞𝚕𝚢. 𝙼𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗, 𝚃𝚒𝚖, 𝚂𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚊, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙴𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝚆𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕… 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗, 𝚃𝚒𝚖, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎… 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜… 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚜.

𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎, 𝚞𝚑 [𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝] 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢, 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔. 𝚃𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔. 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝙹𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜’ 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚑... 𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎. 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚝. 𝚂𝚘 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐… 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜.

𝚃𝚑𝚎, 𝚞𝚑, 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏, 𝚝𝚑𝚎- 𝚞𝚑… 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕.

𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚗𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚆𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎… 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜. 

𝙼𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍. 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎… 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜.

𝙸𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚞𝚜 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝙹𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝… 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 --

[𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗]

𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚎. 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍. 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠. 

𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝. 𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚏𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝, 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚘, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎… 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢. 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢. 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. [𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝]

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚛- 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝙸- 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕-

[𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜] 

𝙸𝚂𝙽’𝚃 𝙸𝚃 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙱𝙻𝙴, 𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙷𝙸𝚅𝙸𝚂𝚃? 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝙰𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻? 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝙴𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚈 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙰𝚁𝙴? 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝚁𝚈 𝚃𝙾 𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝙳𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙰𝙻 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙲𝙸𝚂𝙼 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙷𝙾𝙿𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂 𝙱𝚄𝚃 𝙸𝚃’𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙰𝙼𝙴, 𝙸𝚂 𝙸𝚃, 𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙷𝙸𝚅𝙸𝚂𝚃?

𝙸𝚃’𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙴𝚂, 𝙸𝚃’𝚂 𝙰 𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶; 𝙰𝙽 𝙴𝙼𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂. 𝙸𝚃’𝚂 𝙰𝙽 𝙰𝙱𝚈𝚂𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝚅𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵 𝙱𝙴𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴. 𝙸𝚃’𝚂 𝙰 𝚅𝙾𝙸𝙳…

𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚂 𝙸𝚃, 𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙷𝙸𝚅𝙸𝚂𝚃? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙼 𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄? 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁 𝙵𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙾𝚁? 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁 𝙶𝙾𝙰𝙻, 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁 𝙷𝙾𝙼𝙴, 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁 𝙵𝙾𝙾𝙳, 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁 𝙱𝙴𝙳? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚁𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙱𝙴𝚁 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙸𝚃 𝙵𝙴𝙻𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶, 𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙷𝙸𝚅𝙸𝚂𝚃? 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰 𝙿𝚄𝚁𝙿𝙾𝚂𝙴 𝙾𝚄𝚃𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵? 𝚃𝙾 𝙵𝚄𝙻𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙸𝚃 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚂 𝙸𝚃? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙲𝚁𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁 𝚆𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶? 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙵𝙻𝙴𝚂𝙷 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰 𝙿𝚄𝚁𝙿𝙾𝚂𝙴 𝙾𝚄𝚃𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝙸𝚃𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶? 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙼𝙴𝙰𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙰 𝙲𝙾𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝙶𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽 𝙸𝚃𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵?

𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚈𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙽, 𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙷𝙸𝚅𝙸𝚂𝚃? 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙿𝚄𝙻𝚂𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄? 𝚃𝙾 𝚂𝚄𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝙸𝚃? 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙸𝚃?

𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳, 𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙷𝙸𝚅𝙸𝚂𝚃, 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙱𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝙰 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙴 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙰𝙲𝚃𝚄𝙰𝙻𝙻𝚈 𝙲𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙵𝙰𝙲𝙴 𝙰𝚁𝙴𝙰 𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙾𝙱𝙹𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚁𝙴𝙳𝚄𝙲𝙴 𝙸𝚃𝚂 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚂?

𝙰𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙴𝙰𝚃 𝙰𝚆𝙰𝚈 𝙰𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝙱𝙴𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙼. 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙶𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄. 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙱𝙸𝚁𝚃𝙷 𝙽𝙴𝚆 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙶𝙽 𝙽𝙴𝚆 𝙼𝙾𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶. 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝙲𝚈𝙲𝙻𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻… 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝙰𝙿𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙿𝚁𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴… 𝙳𝙾𝙽’𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚈𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙽 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴 𝙲𝚈𝙲𝙻𝙴𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝙵𝙻𝙾𝚆 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷 𝚈𝙾𝚄, 𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙷𝙸𝚅𝙸𝚂𝚃? 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙾𝙰𝚁𝙳𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝙴𝙰𝚃 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝚃 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙵𝚄𝙲𝙺 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙳𝙸𝙴 𝙱𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙲𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶? [𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛]

[𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌]

[𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎]

𝙴… 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐.

[𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔]


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